Page 64 of The Temporary Bride

He keeps waiting.

“Going down on me,” I mutter finally, getting it out in a rush. Then I laugh a little at how ridiculous I sound, like I’m confessing something to a priest. Like we did something incredibly taboo instead of just what most husbands and wives do all the time.

Well, I guess the fact that it was in a conference room at his office was pretty taboo. Not that that ever seems to stop us.

Tristan hums low in his throat, clearly pleased to have gotten the words out of me. He reaches out and tips my chin up with one finger, turning my face toward his. The smirk on his face is pure heat, and up close like this, with the TV casting soft light across his features, he’s almost sinfully good-looking.

“Well, if that’s the best way to make your pain go away,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing along my jaw, “I’m happy to keep doing it.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, which sounds stupid even as it leaves my mouth.

He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble that stirs heat low in my belly. “‘Have to’ isn’t a phrase I’d ever use when it comes to eating out my wife. I want to. That taste I got of you at the office wasn’t nearly enough.” His eyes gleam in the light from the TV as he adds, “I’m starving for you, dimples.”

A little shiver works its way up my spine, and a plaintive little noise slips past my lips before I can stop it.

That’s apparently all he needs.

He reaches for my legs and tugs me flat onto my back in one smooth motion, settling between my knees on the couch.

“Tristan,” I whisper, and there’s a whole lot I’m trying to say with that one word.

He smiles in response, his hands moving to the waistband of my sweats, pulling them down slowly along with my panties, working them off my legs and dropping them somewhere on the floor. Then he reaches for the hem of my shirt, and I lift my arms to let him pull it over my head. He keeps going until I’m naked beneath him on the couch, the fabric smooth against my back.

He sits back on his heels and looks at me, and the expression on his face does more to me than most men have managed with a hell of a lot more effort.

“So fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself. “Look at you.”

His hands settle on my hips as he lowers his mouth to the inside of my thigh. I suck in a breath at the first press of his lips against my skin, my fingers curling into the cushion beneath me. He nips and licks and sucks his way upward, pressing his mouth to my skin in a trail that makes every nerve ending between there and where I actually want him light up in anticipation. When he reaches my hip, he traces his tongue along the curve of my hipbone, and I whimper.

He makes his way up my stomach, his lips brushing over my ribs, my sternum, and then his mouth closes over one of my nipples, and I let out a low cry. The wet heat of his mouth against the sensitive skin makes my back arch off the cushions, and he hums against me, adjusting, flicking his tongue in a way that makes my toes curl.

“So responsive,” he murmurs. “You like that?”

I nod because I really fucking do.

As if to reward me for the honesty, he scrapes his teeth lightly over the little nub, and I hiss out a breath, arching up hard against him.

“Fuck,” he groans, moving to the other side and giving it the same attention. His hands slide down my body as he does, fingers trailing over my stomach and hips and the tops of my thighs, touching everywhere.

Well, everywhere except where I really fucking need him to.

By the time he starts kissing his way back down my body, I’m breathing hard and squirming on the couch. He presses his lips to my stomach, my hip, the inside of my thigh, moving with a patience that’s starting to feel like a very deliberate form of torture. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my pussy before his mouth even makes contact, and my hips are already shifting toward him.

When he finally puts his mouth on my clit, every muscle in my body goes tight at once.

It’s different from earlier in the conference room. More intense, less restrained, like he’s decided he has more time now and can do exactly what he wants. His tongue moves in long, purposeful strokes, and I grip his hair with both hands and hold on.

“Oh my god, fuck,” I gasp.

He chuckles. “You can just call me Tristan. Or ‘husband,’ if you prefer. But if you want to call me your god, I guess I’d better give you something to pray about.”

He slides two fingers inside me and curls them forward, and my back comes off the cushions as my mouth drops open. He keeps his tongue on my clit, circling and lapping, and the combination of sensations is enough to make my vision blur at the edges. I give up on trying to muffle the breathless, desperate sounds I’m making. There’s no point, since we’re at home—and besides, I’m not sure I could stop even if I tried.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against me, his breath warm. “Just like that. You feel so good.”

He works my pussy like he fucking owns it, his fingers curling on every stroke, and I can feel the pleasure building fast, something winding tighter and tighter in my core. My thighs are shaking on either side of his head, my fingers twisting in his hair. I’m grinding against his mouth, chasing the feeling, and he doesn’t let up, keeping his rhythm exactly where I need it.

“I’m… oh fuck, I’m⁠—”